


practical tactical brilliance

by rillrill



Series: Revolutionary Whore [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Daddy Kink, Facials, For The Revolution, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Verbal Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 13:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m fine, by the way,” Hamilton says testily when he catches both men looking down at him. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just sit back and watch—”</p><p>Lafayette raises both eyebrows as Washington turns to him with a sideways smirk. “You see what I mean, Lafayette?” he asks, resting his hand on Lafayette’s knee and rubbing it tenderly. “Colonel Hamilton possesses a mouth that his common sense cannot keep up with.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	practical tactical brilliance

**Author's Note:**

> This is for everyone who has requested more Lafayette in this series (Ham/Laf/GW nonny, I'm looking at you). Historically inaccurate tent sex follows. I hope you're satisfied.

Monmouth is a reckoning.  
  
In the days after their crushing near-defeat, Lafayette doesn’t know what to do. He has never seen the General in such a mood, has never heard him swear so emphatically. The mood in their camp is foul, the heat is oppressive. He has never experienced so hot and humid a summer and hopes not to experience one thereafter. His Excellency stalks around camp with a soldier’s bearing and a furious look on his face, and he does not yield his performance of said fury for anyone.  
  
Except Lafayette, and except Hamilton.  
  
It is funny, Lafayette thinks as he hurries to the General’s tent, the heat finally beginning to break now than the sun has long set, that the two of them would become the objects of such favor. For a man with no sons of his own, perhaps it makes sense that he would seek them out in wartime. Do young men not do the same, look for brothers in the arms of battle? Has he not come to consider Hamilton a brother of sorts? He and Hamilton are so similar, both having lost their fathers so early in their lives and come to America chasing a war — and yet so much not at the same time. Where he is self-assured, Hamilton often seems unsettled, unrefined, as if he cannot escape the memory of his origin and his low birth. It matters not. Hamilton is his friend, his brother, a keen military mind and a fine flirt, particularly on the page. There is nothing else to be thought of it.  
  
Which is why, when he arrives at Washington’s tent, he is initially unsurprised to see Hamilton there already. He is the General’s favored aide-de-camp; in these days following the battle, Washington has had much need of him. There is Washington, seated on his cot, and Hamilton’s hair is mussed, and his face is flushed with the warmth of the day, even warmer within the tent. He is seated on the floor, at the General’s feet, paper and quill at his side. He and his Excellency have both removed the trappings of their uniforms, and sit in their breeches and undershirts. And —  
  
_Ah._  
  
“Monsieur Lafayette,” intones the General, inclining his head. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”  
  
“Your Excellency, sir,” Lafayette says, choosing his words carefully, for suddenly he is not so certain upon what scene he has walked in. “I came to ask your permission. I plan to write d’Estaing and request ships—”  
  
Washington nods again. “Of course,” he says. “Permission granted. I entrust this to your judgment, you don’t need to consult me again.”  
  
“Thank you, sir.” Lafayette pauses, and begins to retreat from the tent. “That is all.”  
  
As he turns to leave, he hears Hamilton’s voice: “No, Monsieur Lafayette, do us the pleasure. Stay a bit.”  
  
Lafayette turns, locking eyes first with Hamilton, who looks dark and slightly aroused with possibility, and then with Washington, who gives him a small, solemn nod. And, well. Unexpected as it may be, again — it only makes sense, that the General would have made use of Hamilton’s services in the same way he has occasionally made use of Lafayette’s own.  
  
“Right,” Lafayette says, as he clears his throat. “Your Excellency, I am at your service. And yours, Colonel Hamilton.”  
  
Washington chuckles a bit as he reaches down to thread a hand through Hamilton’s shining, loose dark hair. “Don’t flatter him, son,” he says to Lafayette, stroking Hamilton’s hair playfully. “Alexander has need of a firm hand. His mouth has gotten him into more trouble than he is prepared to answer for. Just today I found him spouting off at Charles Lee—”  
  
“Lee will get what he deserves, mark my damned words,” mutters Hamilton darkly, but Washington simply frowns and shakes his head. Hamilton shifts on his knees before him, pressing his cheek against the knee of the General’s breeches, and adds, in a low, muffled moan, “I’m sorry, Father.”  
  
Lafayette raises both eyebrows. This is so different from the way Washington treats him during the moments they steal. There is more warmth, more emotion, that seems to color his own interactions with the General. Yet Hamilton does not seem affronted by the General’s cool treatment, and then Washington resumes stroking Hamilton’s hair, and Lafayette is certain he hears a faint whisper of a content sigh drift from Colonel Hamilton’s mouth.  
  
“Son,” says Washington, but it is aimed at Lafayette this time, and his eyes flick up to meet the General’s. Washington is looking at him with a familiar hunger, biting down on his lower lip before he says, “Please do me the honor of sitting by my side.”  
  
Ah. Lafayette needn’t be asked twice. Instead, he simply moves to unbutton his overcoat, asking, “May I unburden myself before I do? The heat — grows overbearing.”  
  
“By all means, take your time,” Washington nods, but Lafayette will _not_. He sheds his jacket and sets it carefully aside before he sidles up to the General’s side and sits. It’s still much too warm in the tent, but his skin is gooseflesh as Washington lifts a hand and caresses his cheek softly. He feels himself let out a suspended breath, a long, low hiss of tension he can no longer contain, before Washington kisses him softly.  
  
This, he is used to. This, he has become accustomed to, the soft touches and Washington’s lips upon his, and he thrills each time it happens, a sort of dizzying spin that nearly knocks him sideways every damned time. Washington kisses tenderly, yet firmly, his other hand moving to the small of Lafayette’s back and resting there, heavy and warm, keeping him in place. Lafayette yearns to touch him back, desires nothing but to strip off the General’s undershirt and run hands all over his powerful chest, but holds back; he lets Washington take the lead in these matters, lets him decide what comes next.  
  
He has almost forgotten Hamilton’s presence until Washington spreads his knees a little wider and provokes a gentle “Oh” from the floor. Lafayette pulls away to see Hamilton rubbing at the back of his neck and scowling a bit.  
  
“I’m fine, by the way,” he says testily when he catches both men looking down at him. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just sit back and watch—”  
  
Lafayette raises both eyebrows as Washington turns to him with a sideways smirk. “You see what I mean, Lafayette?” he asks, resting his hand on Lafayette’s knee and rubbing it tenderly. “Colonel Hamilton possesses a mouth that his common sense cannot keep up with.”  
  
“Oh, I’m quite aware,” Lafayette laughs. “He has gone more harshly at his fellow soldiers for less. I find it delightful.”  
  
“I find it an annoyance,” Washington sighs. He looks down at Hamilton. “You asked Monsieur Lafayette to stay. Did you think he would simply be content to observe?”  
  
“I — that was my intent,” Hamilton says. “An audience can be —”  
  
“ _He_ is not your audience,” Washington says sternly, and Lafayette has to hold back another laugh as Hamilton looks at him imploringly to play along. He has some sense of what is playing out in front of him. He has no qualms about encouraging it. “Lafayette, do you have anything to add?”  
  
Lafayette lifts one shoulder in a parody of a shrug. “I expect nothing less of Hamilton,” he says. “If you wish to — exact discipline — for his presumption, I would not object.”  
  
“Ah,” says Washington, his eyes sparkling even as his voice remains stern. “There it is. But I won’t punish him, Lafayette. _You_ will.”  
  
Hamilton looks up at both, clearly confused, and Lafayette grins, bouncing his shoulders a little in anticipation. This twist of fate, he had not predicted, yet he can hardly hold back his glee. “Hamilton,” he purrs, “how does His Excellency normally discipline you?”  
  
Hamilton hesitates, and Washington gives him an imperious look. “Go on.”  
  
“Over his knee, most often,” Hamilton says quietly. “Or by delaying my release, or denying it altogether.”  
  
“Aha,” Lafayette smiles. “But you enjoy these, _non_? This is not a true form of punishment, to you.”  
  
“Yes,” Hamilton murmurs. There’s a flush coming to his cheeks, olive skin growing a little pinker, and he leans back on his hands as he looks up at the men seated above him. “I do enjoy them, yes.”  
  
“Then I will not punish you in such a way,” Lafayette says decisively. He turns to Washington. “Your Excellency, may I suggest another option?”  
  
“By all means,” Washington says.  
  
“Perhaps,” says Lafayette slowly, resting his hand atop Washington’s, “if Colonel Hamilton sought an audience, the sweetest comeuppance would be to _make him_ the audience this time.”  
  
“Oh,” Washington says, understanding thoroughly coloring his voice. “I see.” And then he looks to Hamilton, who frowns. “Hamilton.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Take your clothes off.”  
  
Lafayette watches in amusement as Hamilton stumbles to his feet and strips, hurried and ungraceful. He does not tease or even attempt to titillate the two of them; somehow, it matters very little. Lafayette drinks in the visuals anyway: his lithe frame, the flex and pull of muscle and bone. There’s not an extra gram of fat on him. Then again — it’s a war. His hair falls into his face in his haste, and he does not push it back until his breeches join his undershirt in a puddle on the floor. Half-hard, scruffy and defiant, he steps back and spreads his arms wide in a mocking gesture. Lafayette holds back a laugh. _There’s_ the tomcat.  
  
“Down,” Washington orders. “On your knees, son. Or —” He looks to Lafayette. “Would you prefer him elsewhere?”  
  
“Oh, no, on his knees works perfectly,” Lafayette says, as Hamilton huffs and kneels. “Are you comfortable, Alexander?”  
  
“I could be more so,” Hamilton says, and Lafayette shrugs.  
  
“Too bad. Hands behind your back, now.”  
  
Washington smiles knowingly as he turns back to Lafayette. “Where were we, son?” he asks, and Lafayette responds by kissing him first, this time. Seeing Hamilton kneel, so obedient and willing for the both of them, has lit him aflame. Washington rearranges their position on his cot, pulling Lafayette on top of him. The quarters are cramped, but he does not complain; has been through more for less. He could _never_ complain, not when he’s astride the General like this, those large hands kneading his ass through his tight breeches. Somehow, Washington has a way of making him feel smaller than his height.  
  
He lets Washington kiss him like this for quite some time, warm and inviting. Washington has a way of opening him up from the outside. He runs his long fingers up and down Lafayette’s neck, dancing at the nape of his neck and just barely brushing at the hairs that have sprung loose from his ponytail. He responds by grinding down against the General, rolling his hips against those beneath him, his cock very stiff inside his breeches.  
  
“Oh,” Lafayette hears himself breathe as Washington thrusts his hips up against to meet his own, and then grins into another kiss. He feels Washington reach down to grope at his ass again, and pulls back to whisper to him, his voice so low as to exclude Hamilton from eavesdropping. “Now that we’ve got an audience,” he murmurs, “shall we entertain him, Your Excellency?”  
  
“As always, your judgment is sound, son.” Washington does not whisper, but his voice is low and lusty, and Lafayette shivers. The word _son_ should not induce the reaction it does from him, but the General has that way about him. He looks down at Washington, his heavy, dark eyebrows furrowed as he bites down on his lip again, and there is no pretense or illusion between them in this moment. For perhaps the first time, he sees Washington for what he is: a man, a _great_ man, but a man with human desires and human ways of exacting them — nothing more, nothing less.  
  
And Washington desires _him_. And that is the greatest honor with which he has been bestowed in all his time in America.  
  
Lafayette does not waste time. He yanks his undershirt over his head, lets his hair free and tosses the ribbon and shirt both in Hamilton’s direction. He has nothing to be ashamed of; his body is his pride, firm and well-muscled. He sees Hamilton’s jaw shift and watches him swallow and bite back a gasp. Funny, as they’ve bathed beside each other countless times before. Perhaps it is the context or perhaps the colonel just ought to pay closer attention to his surroundings. Washington sits up underneath him and helps work his breeches over his hips, and as his hard cock pops free, Lafayette groans a little, reaching down to stroke himself once, twice, just _enough_.  
  
It is still outrageously warm in the tent. The heat, perhaps, is going to his head.  
  
Washington runs a hand down his back as Lafayette shifts position in his lap. He is still seated upright on the cot, and does not make a motion as if to lie back down. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and Lafayette’s cock fills out a little more with the swell of pride that hits him as he realizes the General is talking about _him_. _He_ is the beautiful one. He does not have the words to express this in English, so he doesn’t bother to try. Instead, he kisses Washington again, a little harder this time, and sighs as one of His Excellency’s large hands finds his cock and begins to stroke him off.  
  
It’s soft, and it’s barely a teasing motion, but this only drives him wilder. Lafayette runs his hands down Washington’s chest, gripping the fabric of his undershirt as the hand on his cock gets a little firmer. “Good boy,” Washington mutters against his jaw, and Lafayette gasps again, wrenching his eyes open to look Hamilton straight in the eye.  
  
Hamilton looks as though he’s barely able to contain the nervous energy teeming within him. His hands are still clasped obediently behind his back, true, but Lafayette can see the muscles in his thighs tremble with the strain of holding still like this, and he smirks. He would like to see this play out, would like to see exactly how desperate Hamilton will become before he — or, rather, Washington — allows him over the edge. So he pulls away from Washington, rests both hands on his broad shoulders, and tips their foreheads together as he whispers, “ _Baise-moi_.”  
  
“Oh, son,” Washington murmurs back. One of his fingers traces Lafayette’s lips, and he doesn’t think before opening his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it and sucks on it lightly as Washington smirks. “I think Alexander deserves to hear what he’s missing, doesn’t he?”  
  
Lafayette tilts his head to sneak another look at Hamilton, who has his teeth gritted in the pretense of a smile. Washington takes his hand away, and Lafayette laughs. “Does he?”  
  
“Do not be so reticent,” Washington commands as he teases at Lafayette’s entrance with the same damp finger. Lafayette grinds his teeth at the sensation, arching into the contact and silently begging for more. “Speak up. Tell him what you’re feeling.”  
  
Lafayette rests his chin on Washington’s shoulder as he looks Hamilton in the eye, the finger returning to trace around his entrance, now slick with something else. “It is — I’m certain you know, he’s beginning to, _oh_ —” He arches his back again as the tip of the General’s index finger breaches him, just barely.  
  
“Go on,” Washington says, pausing expectantly in his ministrations. “Tell him, or I’ll stop.”  
  
“Ah,” Lafayette says, racking his brain for the words. When he’s this worked up, he loses them, reverts to his mother tongue, but he understands implicitly that this will not do. The General is testing him as much as Hamilton, he senses; he is in control even as he bestows the image of the honor upon Lafayette himself. “Oh, he’s inside me,” he breathes. He knows this must sound silly, but Hamilton’s eyes are blown and dark and his cock is hard, jutting up sharply against his stomach as he shifts on his knees.  
  
Washington takes his time working him open with just that finger, and Lafayette attempts to make sense of the words swirling within his brain, translates sensation to French and then to English and spits it back out at Hamilton, who watches hungrily, yearningly. When Lafayette’s taken two, he pulls away and grabs at Washington’s undershirt, tugging it over his shoulders and up over his head. “Please, Your Excellency,” he says, shaking his hair out of his flushed face. “I need — more. Your cock. Inside me.”  
  
“Do you,” Washington says, his voice placid and unmoved. “Alexander, what do you think? Would you like to see Lafayette ride me? Would that bring you pleasure?”  
  
“I—” Hamilton hesitates, clearly unsure of what response the General solicits with this question. He fidgets on his knees, shifting his weight as he casts his gaze to the floor, and when he looks up, his expression is more decisive. “It brings me pleasure to see you exact your will, whatever it may be. _Sir_.”  
  
Washington cocks a brow, obviously impressed. “Good answer, boy,” he says, and begins to undo his own breeches. Lafayette licks his lips as his erection springs forth, resting thick and heavy on his stomach. Washington works his breeches down to mid-thigh, but as Lafayette moves to vacate his position, so as to get them the rest of the way down, Washington stops him with a single hand on his wrist. “No,” he says, “I think you’ll do the work. This is fine, son.”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Lafayette growls, still straddling his thighs. Washington chuckles and lets him go, then gropes on the floor beneath the cot and comes up with a little bottle, upending it over his cock and slicking it up. Lafayette licks his lips at the dark gleam of it. He has thought, dreamt about this for too long, lent service of his hands and mouth to the General on many occasions, but — not this. Never this. Not yet.  
  
From his place several feet away, Hamilton lets out a long whine as he watches Lafayette grip Washington by the base of the his cock and slowly line him up against his entrance. Lafayette is overwhelmed; he does not know where to look, but it’s as if Washington senses that.  
  
“Go ahead,” he says, looking up to Lafayette. “Tell him how it feels.”  
  
“Oh, _merde_ ,” is all Lafayette can conjure as he sinks onto Washington’s cock. That first press inside, the sensation, it overwhelms. “I am — Sir, Your Excellency —” He’s trying, he truly is, but Washington is so _thick_ , fills him so _exquisitely_ , and he simply doesn’t have the words to express it. He sinks down, taking Washington inside him all the way to the base, and then simply pauses, waiting it out, allowing his body and his muscles time to adjust.  
  
He looks, again, at Hamilton.  
  
“You may touch yourself,” he offers generously, and perhaps he might have done better to ask the General’s permission to grant such an indulgence first, but if Washington has anything to say about it, the words aren’t coming out as Lafayette lifts himself up, then drops back down on his cock again. Hamilton, it seems, doesn’t need to be told twice by the both of them. He’s already stroking himself furiously, and as Washington gasps, Lafayette — temporarily out of words, but never short of enthusiasm — picks up the pace.  
  
“Oh, good God,” Washington groans as he digs his fingers into Lafayette’s taut thighs. He tries for a moment to thrust upward, but Lafayette shakes his head.  
  
“ _Non_ ,” he gasps, “let me,” and Washington simply nods and seems to fall even further into the cot in apparent supplication. Lafayette, left now to his own devices, grins and moves a little faster, riding the General’s thick cock, his shoulders thrown back and posture almost regal. His eyes snap up to Hamilton, who is watching the show raptly, lips parted as the hand on his dick speeds up.  
  
“Don’t you dare,” Lafayette says warningly, “or — there will be —” _Fuck, the word, what’s the word—_  
  
“Consequences,” Washington groans beneath him, and Lafayette nods.  
  
“Consequences.” Lafayette nods. He glances back to Washington, who is staring up at him in pure, unbridled lust. Perhaps he has never felt so appealing, his body on free display to both members of his audience, clutching at his own cock with one hand as his commander slowly unravels beneath him.  
  
This — this is bliss, this sort of hedonistic pleasure they say is the stock-and-trade of the French.  
  
But Hamilton seems too far gone to heed their warnings; perhaps he has been dancing along this knife’s edge since they both ordered him down to the floor. He swallows hard as he asks, “Father, Lafayette — may I —”  
  
“No,” Lafayette and Washington both groan in unison, but it makes no difference. Hamilton reels through his climax practically the moment they say it, eyes sliding shut as he strokes himself through it, and Lafayette cannot hold back a gasp at the visual — Hamilton, no control, no restraint, biting down on his own lower lip as he gasps a series of _Yes, yes, yes_. Lafayette stops his movements to watch as Hamilton comes down from it, and then Washington is adjusting their position, sitting up, still seated deep inside Lafayette with both hands clasped on his ass.  
  
“Alexander,” Washington says, in what may be the closest thing he can approximate to a stern tone.  
  
There is a brief moment of screaming silence, and Lafayette begins to laugh, burying his face in the General’s neck to stifle the sound, suddenly very aware that someone — anyone — might have overheard them. He feels Washington relax a little beneath him, and rolls his hips again, experimentally. But Washington, instead, carefully withdraws from him, motioning for Lafayette to stand.  
  
“Alexander,” he says again, heavily, and kicks his breeches the rest of the way off, finally, for the first time this night, completely undressed. He stands and pours more oil onto his hand, stroking himself slowly and lazily as he walks to where Hamilton still kneels, looking only the slightest bit apologetic. Lafayette takes Washington’s cue, advances on him as well, gripping his own thick erection around the base.  
  
Hamilton licks his lips, looking up at them both. “Yeah,” he says faintly, as though he knows what’s coming. Lafayette’s stomach jumps as he looks to Washington, who nods again.  
  
“You’ve got to answer for your insubordination, Alexander,” Washington says. His unoccupied hand snakes into Hamilton’s hair, holding his head steady, and Hamilton whines a little as he presses his face upward. Washington was already close, Lafayette could tell; he is closer now, fucking his own grip in long, protracted strokes that look unspeakably filthy from Lafayette’s perspective. He can hardly imagine what Hamilton sees, on his knees before two cocks — another shiver hits him as he realizes that for Hamilton, perhaps this is _not_ the first time, perhaps the ease with which he licks his lips and offers up his face is hard-won —  
  
The first splash of Washington’s come makes Hamilton flinch, his shoulders trying to curl inward as he presses his eyes tightly shut. He tries to pull away, perhaps on instinct, but Washington fists the hand in his hair and holds him tighter as more slaps hot against his lips and cheek. And it’s this image that sets off Lafayette, his own hand a blur as he jerks his cock, Alexander’s eyes squeezed shut as he comes, painting messy white stripes across his tan cheek. Desperate and filthy and whorish, exactly the right sort of debauched.  
  
“My God,” Lafayette whispers in reverence as he drops his hand. Washington, breathing heavily, runs his thumb across Alexander’s cheekbone, smearing their seed into his skin there. And then, practically in unison, they both drop to the floor as Hamilton collapses into both of them.  
  
Time seems to slow as Lafayette kisses Hamilton lazily. Odd, perhaps, for this to be their first point of contact all night, yet a fitting denouement to the experience they’ve both shared. He feels Washington press a kiss into his shoulder and sighs against Hamilton’s lips.  
  
He has forgotten why he came to the General's tent in the first place. Ah. Ah well.


End file.
